


Frostbite

by InsertCleverUsernameHere



Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, F/M, M/M, vampire!Loki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 07:13:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsertCleverUsernameHere/pseuds/InsertCleverUsernameHere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He is a shadow, a presence you feel but don't dare to see."  You knew you shouldn't have been out alone.  Vampire!Loki/Original Character (unspecified gender)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frostbite

**Author's Note:**

> Written in my pretentious second-person voice, sorry if that annoys some. My first fic on this site, but I've been writing for about four years.

He is a shadow, a presence you feel but don't dare to see.  you keep walking, praying to a god you don't believe in that you'll see the next morning.  Before you know it there is a figure walking beside you, skin nearly glowing in the moonlight.  He's so pale he could be ill (or dead) and this is only emphasized by the black curls framing his face.  He looks at you with inhumanly green eyes and grins.  You notice two things at once.  Teeth, or fangs, sharp as stilettos.  And his footsteps - or lack thereof, because you don't hear any.  He smells the terror on you and his smirk is downright predatory.  You want to yell, but you've heard about his kind and how fast they are.  Dark lightning, he could snap your neck before you had the chance to scream.  But he won't.

That's not what he wants.

You feel goosebumps forming, not because of the cold but because you are suddenly strikingly aware of your mortality.   _I could die_ , you think.  Adrenaline floods your veins, the basest survival reaction.  You are know hyperaware of the man (monster?) beside you, of exactly how close he is, and of the cold - not lack of heat, but actual cold - coming off him.  Even in the dim light thrown off by the streetlamp, you can see his lips red against his skin.  He would be beautiful if the color didn't remind you of blood.  Your skin tingles, a thrill running up your spine.  He leads you into an alleyway with a hand on your arm  _no this is bad this is bad_.  You are against the wall before you can register it, and you try to tell yourself that fear is the only thing you're feeling.  He whispers something against your ear; his lips are ice but there's no breath.  Whatever he's said isn't English, it can't be, but a tumble of ancient syllables that - it enters your mind that it might be a spell, because your knees go weak and he's holding you up now, baring your neck.  

Pain, overwhelming pain, twin needles piercing your skin and a cold hand tangled in your hair.  He drinks, and through the haze of agony you wonder why you're not dying.  Cold metal on your forearm, a blade, and then your wrists are touching, faintly wet from what you can feel.  The pain dulls.  You feel  _warmer_ , like the whole world turned up the thermostat.  A flash of tongue on your neck, then he pulls away and you open your eyes to find that you can  _see_.  It's a weird kind of sight, shimmering and dark, but you can pick out every detail on the brick wall in front of you and - oh there's a mouse skittering by the trash can ten yards down.   _Why can I hear that?_  He's watching you with a smirk your writer's mind would call "mildly amused."  And then it hits you.  The smell.  Cities, as a rule, have a sort of smell to them, between diesel and garbage, but it's intense now and you want to vomit or cry or both.  He puts his hand on your shoulder and speaks softly; he's fond of that, apparently.

"Concentrate," he murmurs.  "Pick out one scent.  It's hardest in the beginning."

You close your eyes, press the heels of your hands into the sockets.  A kaleidoscope of color blooms in the blackness and through the faint pain you find a familiar smell.  Sharp.  Metallic.  Dark.

"Blood."

He laughs, a sound like snowmelt.  "It usually is."

"Usually - "   _Oh my god._  "You..."

"Took you long enough, love."

"Don't call me that, you utter bastard, you - you  _violated_ my  _rights_!"

He shrugs.  You raise your hand to slap him but he catches your wrist.  "Don't tell me you didn't want an adventure."

"I - "  You growl.  "Go to hell."

"It's not as bad as you might think," he says with a fanged smile.

"You're sick."

But the word sticks in your mind.   _Adventure._   And you think you like it.


End file.
